Passing
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Dean recieves news of a passing.


**Wrote this today at work. Don't tell my boss. Please review, and then head off to my website for my answer to said review. And the boys aren't mine. Oh, how I wish they were.**

* * *

Dean stretched and yawned, curling his toes into the sheets and squinching his eyes shut against the morning light. His mouth curled into a disgruntled pout as he silently cursed the coming of day. _Mornings blow,_ he thought, rubbing a fist into one eye and forcing himself to sit up. He scrubbed his eyes one more time, and when he opened them he found Sam sitting at the foot of his bed, laptop at his side. Staring. 

"Dude, don't tell me you watch me when I'm sleeping," groaned Dean. "That's just creepy, even for you." Sam didn't say anything, just kept looking at Dean. There was something in Sam's eyes that made Dean's heart skip a beat and turned the blood to ice in his veins. "What is it?" To his credit, he kept the quaver out of his voice.

"I got an email I think you should read." Sam's tone was quiet, almost a whisper, with that low, sad sound that never failed to scare Dean, even though he would never admit it. Sam pushed the laptop toward Dean, dropping his eyes to study the pattern on the comforter. Dean looked at his brother for a moment longer, brow furrowed, then pulled the laptop to him and opened the email Sam had earmarked.

_To all of Layla's friends:_

_This is Layla's mom Terri writing to you. I'm sorry if this is an impersonal way to share news, but it seemed easiest to just go through Layla's address book and email all of you. Some of you may already know my news, but some may not._

_On September 12__th__, after a long fight, Layla finally succumbed to her cancer. Anyone who knew Layla would also know that she never lost faith, never gave up hope, but in the end the cancer was just too strong._

_Please forgive me for giving you the news this way, but our Layla had so many people who cared for her, it has been impossible to share the news with everyone personally._

_I will miss my little girl forever, but the time I did have with her is so precious to me. Her last days were terribly hard. She was not lucid, and the doctors sedated her much of the time to help her with the pain. But the day that she died she was Layla again, awake and alert, with no pain, and she passed with her beautiful smile on her face._

_Layla's services will be on September 15__th__ at the Union Church in Weeping Willow, Nebraska. She will be buried at the Crystal Springs Cemetery in Weeping Willow._

_Thank you for being friends to my daughter, and please know that she cared for all of you very much._

_With sorrow,_

_Terri Rourke_

Dean finished the email but did not move, just sat staring at the screen with a faraway look in his eyes. Sam caught his upper lip in his teeth and ventured, "You okay?"

Dean closed the lid of the laptop and pushed it away, his face still blank. "Yeah." He took a deep breath, running a hand over his cheek. "How did she have your email address?"

"I told her to keep in touch, to let us know if she ever found a way…" Sam didn't finish the sentence, just went back to looking at Dean.

"Okay." Dean nodded, blowing out a breath. "Thanks." Sam opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it and just forced a half-hearted smile. Dean swung his legs off the bed and bent to pick a pair of jeans off the floor. He stepped into them and snatched a shirt off the bedside table, then plopped back to a seat on the bed to pull on his boots. "I'm going to go find some coffee."

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Sam, trying to find that shaky medium between brotherly concern and meddling worrywart. Dean finished tying his laces with a jerk and stood quickly.

"I just want some coffee and some air, Sam."

"Dean…"

"Sam."

Sam recognized the clipped tone of Dean's voice as a warning, and drew his mouth into a thin line. There was no arguing. Dean shrugged into his coat and stepped outside. He pulled the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, and the slamming of it echoed like a gunshot in the clear morning air. He took a deep, shaking breath and started walking rapidly, knowing that Sam would be watching from the window. He just couldn't deal with Sam, not while freshly shocked, not with his defenses down.

The sun was streaming down through the leaves, dappling the sidewalk, and a brisk fall wind nipped color into Dean's cheeks as he walked. It was too early yet for the tiny mom-and-pop stores to be open, so the street was quiet and deserted. The Halloween decorations in all the windows made an almost Rockwellian picture of small-town America, a reminder of the life that Dean should have known but never did. An ache grew in Dean's chest as he imagined Layla walking down a street such as this, smiling her sweet smile.

Dean soon came upon a small park, which was at best a thick grove of trees with a lea of grass in the center, and a meandering walkway of slate stone. He wandered down the path until he reached a weathered stone bench, upon which he collapsed to a seat.

He dropped his head into his hands and swallowed a shuddering sob, loathing the tears that scalded his cheeks. What a waste, a waste of a sweet, kind woman with too many years ahead of her. Yet here he was, jaded and angry, and having lived far too long already.

Dean dragged the back of his hand over his eyes, clearing away the tears that refused to stay hidden. It wasn't as though he even really _knew_ Layla. He didn't know her likes or dislikes, or even how old she was. All he knew was that she was an innocent person who was now dead because of him. One more on a long list.

The last funeral Dean had been to was his mother's. Certainly, he had buried his friends and even his father, but those were always haphazard affairs. For hunters there were no services, no reverends proclaiming the deeds of the dead. There were only pyres in the dark. It wasn't as if he could even go to Layla's funeral, because her mother no doubt still blamed him for Layla not being healed, and it wouldn't be fair to remind her that Layla was dead because of him.

And she was right. He had no right to take the healing that rightfully should have been Layla's. Layla was a woman of faith, with a bright spirit of hope who could have done a lot of good in the world. And he was a grubby, homeless killer with no faith at all, who left nothing but destruction in his wake. Worse still, the last time he saw Layla she had shown him gentle kindness, even though he was ultimately responsible for her losing her last remaining chance to live.

He dropped his head again and gave in to sobs.

* * *

Terri Rourke walked slowly down the cemetery lane, bundled in her daughter's favorite pea coat. If she buried her nose in the collar she could still smell the faint scent of Layla's perfume. 

It had been one week since she buried Layla. The parade of letters and flowers had been overwhelming at first but then slowed to a trickle as relatives and friends returned to their normal lives, not remembering that Terri's life would never be normal again. And now she was all alone in the cemetery, thinking back and wishing. Wishing was all she could do anymore.

She turned down the narrow walkway toward Layla's grave. As she drew nearer she saw a huge bouquet of white roses, with delicate sprays of baby's breath shivering in the wind. Terri knelt to gather the flowers into her arms, and spied a small white card with embossed silver etching, with only two words written in a spidery scrawl.

_I'm sorry._


End file.
